


Crossroads

by shiju333



Series: Insignificant [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: AU of my fanfic, Oneshot, Self Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28009005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiju333/pseuds/shiju333
Summary: A rough oneshot to Insignificant. What if Bakura's thoughts turned darker. Thanks stalker-sama for the idea! TW: Suicide and self harm.
Series: Insignificant [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051466
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> Another AU to my own fanfiction, because why not? This one is just a one-shot, an idea brought up by a long time reviewer. I never considered this possibility, but maybe people will like it. Also, this is the cleaned up version now. I can never find typos on computer, but I can’t write on mobile. The problems. Haha.

[From ch 22 to give plot location; the end of Bakura’s week alone after shoplifting]

...

Croosroads

...

[The realization hit him with a heavy thunk in his gut as Bakura walked away from the group congregated inside the Kame Game Shop, away from Ryou, away from what felt like his only haven. He should've shut his mouth, threw himself on a couch, and ignored the verbal taunting, then, eventually, allow it to bleed away on the edge of a razor. Why couldn't he ever shut his mouth, just not speak when his mind screamed at him to stop? The thought flittered away, only to be replaced with worse, crushing in the descending despair.

Bakura set his lips in a thin line, pressed tight so to not reveal the swirling abyss of emotions, the maelstrom that thankfully did not reach his eyes. He wanted to cut; every nerve ending sent out rapid fire alerts that he should… But he couldn't; even as Bakura stormed away from the Mouto's, his arms ached. The dozen or so fresh cuts just from the past week throbbed and stung in varied beats—just enough to keep the untoward display of emotions at bay.

His chest hurt, but he pushed away the pain, the tightness in his throat, the fatigue of his lungs as he forced himself to inhale and exhale, with each occurring spasm. And eventually, his breathing returned to normal and his mind cleared.

The little park he had visited in the past few months welcomed him as it always did. The quiet sound of children in the slight distance from the thick of tress Bakura nestled himself under reached his ears, white noise, which he ignored as he looked at nothing in particular. The idea of a piece of nature, a quieter, slower world than he had come from, in the midst of urban Domino City soothed his overwrought nerves, and here, amidst the shadows of trees, Bakura could almost forget everything.

An hour or so passed, before he realized no one was coming; the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting an orange glow, providing a warmth Bakura did not feel a part of. He wondered if he ever felt like the congregations of people slowly exiting the park. As the sun set further, quicker the park emptied, until, finally, Bakura pulled himself from the spot of grass underneath the tree he frequented.

Similar to a crying jag, Bakura felt used up, withered, and so cold—coldness the brisk early autumn night did not influence.] He plodded away from the play park, away from Ryou’s apartment, away from everything. His steps were halted by an oncoming train, one of the few old fashioned cargo trains in the city.

He hadn’t meant to walk towards the train tracks, but here he was, the white bars closing, the faint, but steadily getting closer, sound of the train honking. The idea slipped in the vestiges of his mind before he consciously realized what he planned. The world split apart in that dizzying way when his thoughts short circuited. One image involved him walking away, backwards towards the apartment and his eternal solitude. The other: two steps forward, a brief, penultimate pain, the end of his current mortality.

Finality. The train quickly approached on the left hand side. Bakura stepped forward. One instant and a maelstrom of thoughts. Ryou and the occasional looks of complete happiness, the awkward conversation with Marik in the toilets, the imagined euphoria Joey and Tristan would feel in he just…fucking stepped forward.

Just one step.

But. He couldn’t.

Something, some awful sympathetic tie to life kept him rooted to the spot just outside the train tracks, slightly too close for comfort, but just outside the permanence of the end. The train honked in its steady rhythm, the sound blaring loudly, then continued on.

And Bakura stood.

The train passed him by, the safety bars raised. Cars sped forward, time eclipsed, and still Bakura stood, unable to move. His brain felt stuffed with cotton, an overinflated balloon atop his head. Bakura sank to his knees. Could he have? Would he have? _Should_ he have?

What was wrong with him?

...

“Thief.” Sardonic, slightly lightened with humor, and oh so familiar, the voice of the Pharaoh brought Bakura back from his trance. Still kneeled, just a step away from the train tracks, Bakura jolted.

He jumped up, even in his sluggish frame of mind, he knew how incriminating his location a mile and a half in the opposite direction of Ryou’s apartment was. Kneeling before a set of railroad tracks did not paint a copasetic picture. His stomach churned to life, and the whirring thoughts reemerged from the nothingness his mind had degenerated to.

“What are you doing?” The pharaoh was speaking but Bakura was drowning in the same could, would should cacophony.

The reminder of Joey’s idiotic commentary on his shoplifting ‘incident’ and storming out of the Mouto’s, the hour not followed at the park, the bright lights just towards his left as he had stepped forward onto the tracks… His thoughts were a mess, and Bakura wasn’t ready for any type of conversation the Pharaoh wanted to have.

Had he done the thing, had he stepped forward, he wouldn’t be hearing the slightly mocking tone of the Pharaoh of ages passed.

“Bakura?” Hesitancy marred the usual tones of Yami’s voice.

Bakura stepped past Yami, intent on ignoring him outright. What else could he do but return to the suffering quiet of his room at Ryou’s apartment.

A hand grabbed his arm, and Bakura hissed as pain blossomed along his arm. A reflexive hiss, as the pain was muted behind the continuous could, would, should jumbling chaos of his mind.

Bakura whirled around. Teeth clenched, he said, “What, Yami?”

Yami said nothing in reply. His eyes widened, then narrowed.

Since the Pharaoh deigned not to respond, Bakura ripped with arm from Yami’s grasp, and stalked off.

At least the physicality of walking emptied his mind of could, would, should, and Bakura slipped into normalcy. The dread of returning to Ryou’s apartment, the knowledge that he inflicted enough stress on Ryou to coerce the other to see his therapist early, the reminder he would become Solomon’s little work bitch, and other tediums of his life returned to the forefront of his mind.

It took until he had passed the Mouto’s by ten minutes to realize Yami was still following him. 

He stopped, and heard Yami’s footprints halt as well.

A sigh. “What do you want, Pharaoh?” He continued to walk, and Yami followed, two sets of footsteps walked in the direction of the play park.

“You called me Yami.”

“What?” Bakura asked, frazzled, but comforted at the familiar site of the tree he spent most afternoons at encroached his vision.

“Yami. You called me by my name.” Focused, Bakura could tell Yami wasn’t half appreciating the beauty of the small enclave of nature in the large city.

“Whatever, I won’t do it again.” Bakura stepped over to the trees that bordered the side of the park closest to the Mouto’s

Yami made a noise of frustration. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Can I go home now, your highness?” Bakura looked pointedly away, past the swings.

“No.” A pause, Yami shook his head. “I mean, I don’t think you should.”

“Fuck are you talking about.” Trepidation wormed its way into Bakura’s gut.

“By yourself, I mean.” Yami clarified.

Bakura half laughed in bitter humor. “I’m sure I’ll be just fine.”

Anger influenced the sarcastic remark from Yami “Until you come across another train, sure.”

Bakura’s heart skipped a beat. Heat bloomed in his chest at the acknowledgement. Weakly, he said, “I tripped.”

Yami crossed his arms. “Is that how you got all those cuts on your arm too?”

The heat gave way to a numbing coldness. Bakura was sure the very blood in his veins froze. How the fuck did the Pharaoh know?

“It was just a guess, Bakura, but the look on your face confirms it.” Yami explained.

“How do you know,” Bakura croaked.

Yami softly said, “I saw the blood.” Bakura paced back and forth at the edge of the park, unable to leave Yami’s presence, but agitation propelled him into movement.

“Well it’s my problem, so fuck off.” Back and forth, eyeing the other side of the park, the swings, as an escape.

“No way in hell.” Yami’s words rooted Bakura to the spot akin to a hand on a shoulder might.

“Excuse me?”

Yami’s eyes glistened; Bakura scratched the back of his neck, allowing one fingernail to harshly scrape against the delicate skin there. “You-you were going to...” Yami stopped short, overtly unable to say the words.

Bakura egged him on, habit overriding the hellishness of this conversation. “To what, Pharaoh?” A sneer lifted the edges of his lips into an effigy of a smile.

A tear broke free and trailed down the curvature of Yami’s cheek. “Suicide!”

“I wasn’t actually…” A lie, outright. He couldn’t quite take deep breaths as the true nature of this banter presented itself.

“Bullshit,” Yami said. “You stepped forward; I saw you.”

“You didn’t need to follow me,” Bakura retorted. He forced out a shaky breath.

“Obviously I did!”Yami said. Bakura’s chest felt constricted at the nature of this conversation. His breaths quickened as he struggled to take in air.

“Can’t you just fuck off?” Bakura pleaded, near moaned. He placed a hand at his chest.

Yami’s eyes crinkled, this time in concern, rather than sympathy. “Are you alright?”

No, I’m not, Bakuira wanted to shout, but he couldn’t quite grasp a breath. He felt himself being lead over to a bench, but couldn’t focus as black dots floated in his vision. Yami seemed to take control, instructing Bakura to breathe in and out, and Bakura, so deeply on autopilot, followed the commands, until he could breathe normally again.

Bakura’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t belong here, Yami.”

“What do you mean?” Yami half snapped, half queried. “You are here; that’s all that matters.”

Bakura’s chest tightened again, this time with the weight of unshed tears. He refused to give in to the horrible emotion. He wasn’t sick, he didn’t deserve it, he should’ve… “I’m no good,” he whispered, unable to speak at a normal volume for fear his voice would crack.

“We’ve all done awful things,“ Yami tried and failed to empathize.

Bakura jumped up from the bench “Oh, don’t start with that!”

Yami followed Bakura, whom was walking away in an angry stint. “Start what!? I’m just trying to help!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need your help!” Bakura roared.

A snort. Bakura bristled as Yami literally poked him in the chest with his finger. “You so obviously do.”

“Fuck off,” classic, simple, succinct.

“Are you going back to the train tracks,” Yami drawled.

“Fuck. Off.” This, this antagonistic relationship once Pharaoh and thief had, this Bakura could handle.

“No,” Yami said.

“Yes!” Bakura shouted, spittle forming at the edge of his lips.

“Are we really doing this?” Yami asked with a slight chuckle. He pointed to a little boy at the swings with his mother, and said, “We sound like children.”

“We could stop this,” Bakura offered, a façade of complacency masking his true intentions.

“Absolutely not.” Yami’s tone became serious. “I will not leave you alone to actually step in front of a train or cut yourself to death.”

Bakura sighed at the implication of his cutting as a suicide attempt, but inquired anyway, “What are we gonna do then.”

Yami let out a puff of air. “I don’t know,” he said.

...


	2. Swings

A/N: This starts from the end of chapter 14 “Purging”, after Bakura tells Yami about Ryou and cleans out his cutting paraphenelia.

...

 **[** "What are you doing?" Joey's voice broke through Bakura's one track thoughts as he lugged the garbage bag from earlier, filled with wads of blood soaked paper towels, out the apartment doors. He scowled. He thought he had made it out worry free as Ryou locked himself in the bathroom to barf his lunch up in the toilet.

Ryou slipped away after chewing the last grain of rice; Bakura knew what he intended to do. If he was a better person, he would've mentioned something as Ryou gulped down two glasses of water with his meal. Maybe if he hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts on how to sneak out an obviously rotund bag of cutting paraphernalia, he would've called Ryou out. He started therapy on Friday, on tomorrow. Bakura held ammunition to make Ryou hesitate… "A hand waved at his face, and Bakura's demeanor chilled to prevent any unintentional leakage of emotions Joey wasn't warranted to see, that no one should witness.

"What do you want?" he snarled. He hoisted the bag over a shoulder and stalked off, leaving the apartment behind. He stomped through the parking lot, leaving Joey behind to gape stupidly. Or that's what he hoped the idiot would do. Fate tortured him, Bakura thought, as a hand landed on his opposite shoulder. He stilled. He turned to face Joey reluctantly, more concerned about the nature of the contents enclosed by the black plastic. He ground out, "What?"

Joey rubbed the back of his head. "Who's chopped up in there?" he asked, with a nervous chuckle. He reached for the bag with his hands, but was cut off by Bakura flipping the bag further behind his back. "Seriously, what'ya have in there?"

"None of your concern," Bakura said.

Joey's eyes widened. "I'm going to check on Ryou."

Bakura smirked; a small bubbling of humor that the blond idiot would have to suffer with Ryou's purging this time. "You'll find he is indisposed." Bakura turned and continued to walk off the apartment property, a grin slipped on his face as he heard Joey's pace quicken as the other boy practically ran for the apartment lobby.

He made the familiar walk to the park about a mile from the apartment, loosing himself in the rhythm of the routine. He half expected to stop at the park for a relaxing cut or two; he had his blades, but he didn't feel up to cutting when his arm still stung, so he let the thought drift away. As he approached the park, his footsteps slowed. He surveyed the immediately vicinity, before quickly crossing the road and depositing the bag into one of the garbage cans.

Remembering Joey's inquiries about the contents of the bag, he shoved it underneath the garbage rotting in the sun. He tried to ignore the smell on his fingers as he made the trek back to the apartment. At least Ryou would be done puking and most likely done cleaning the mess by the time he returned.

At least Ryou attempted to be discreet with his habits post Bakura's admission. **]**

Free for the afternoon, thanks to Joey’s presence at his apartment, Bakura turned, and walked away from the park. He didn’t quite want to head back to the apartment, back to the apartment where Ryou’s lingering eating disorder awaited like a malignant tumor. Thoughts turned dark as Bakura walked across the bridge halfway between the Mouto’s and his apartment, just a few minutes from the park.

Bakura stared down into the choppy river below and let the thoughts he repressed float to the forefront of his mind. It was obvious his presence in Ryou’s life caused this eating...thing of Ryou’s. The boy had looked healthy when he returned, only to degenerate in Bakura’s presence.

The thoughts that only appeared when he was alone, late at night, as he stared up at the swirls of paint on his ceiling swam forward. Bakura wondered, was it worth it? Would Ryou be happier if...

He stared down at the water below, at the choppy waves announcing an upcoming summer storm. The same maelstrom in his head. He rubbed at his arm in contemplation. Should he step upon the ledge, one hand grapping for purchase on the lamppost, until that final moment. Could he let go?

But his legs wouldn’t move. He should, for Ryou’s sake jump, but he couldn’t.

Feeling worse than before, any humor from his interaction with Joey, dribbled away in the current with the river.

Failure. Idiot, pathetic, and worthless. He couldn’t do the right thing and leave this wretched world behind him. His feet, that had refused to lift themselves onto the ledge of the bridge, turned and walked away. Bakura headed towards the park on autopilot, cacophony of thoughts even darker than before.

The little boy and his mother were there, but Bakura ignored the potential looks of scorn as he sat on a swing. He swung slowly, back and forth, digging his feet morosely in the dirt beneath him.

Part of couldn’t believe where his thoughts had gone. He hadn’t even fathomed he felt like that, but now that he had failed, what did that even mean? Circling thoughts threatening to engulf him, until the presence of something warm.

The little boy had his arms around Bakura.

Bakura choked, automatically reaching behind the little boy in a pantomime of a hug as Bakura scratched his wrist, willing himself not to give into the emotion building behind his eyes.

Suddenly, the little boy let go, and the mother was apologizing. Bakura nodded in the correct Japanese fashion as she apologized vehemently for her son. The two left, leaving Bakura, once again, alone.

Bakura’s chest tightened as the sameness of the day washed over him. Alone again. Alone after...the event at the bridge. What had he tried to do? And all for Ryou. He felt the tears come, and allowed them to form. Was there not a better time than his near—whatever that was?

“Bakura?” Yami’s voice broke through Bakura’s near release of emotion. The Pharaoh sat to the right of Bakura on the swings.

Fuck. Bakura veered his swing to the left, scrubbing at his eyes as he did so. Abso-fucking-lutely impeccable time as always.

“What Pharaoh,” Bakura ground in his chilliest voice, a reminder to Yami that, whilst Yami was playing nice after Bakura helped with Ryou’s eating disorder, Bakura was resolutely not.

“I just wanted to thank you again for Ryou,” Yami managed to sound insulted.

Bakura waved his left hand, still facing in the opposite direction of his once mortal enemy. “Good, now can you go?”

“Are you alright?” Yami asked, peering closer at the unusually choked up Bakura.

“Fine,” Bakura said, sounding anything but fine as his voiced cracked on the single word.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Bakura said, adamant.

Yami grabbed at Bakura’s arm, intent to swing him around to face him, when Bakura yelped, pulling his arm back towards him. In the process, the swing ricocheted back to the starting position, allowing Yami a full view of the moisture in Bakura’s eyes.

“Are you—”

Bakura halted Yami’s question with a glare that would’ve been more effective if Bakura’s eyes weren’t filling with moisture.

Yami grabbed Bakura’s arm again, this time planting his hand firmly on Bakura’s wrist, using his other arm to push up Bakura’s sleeve. Yami’s eyes widened at the sight lines and lines of cut up flesh and one sagging wound.

“Are you trying to die!?” Yami yelped, releasing his hold of Bakura’s arm in shock.

Bakura yanked his arm back. He intended to hotly deny Yami’s inquiry, but a choked sob escaped his lips, and suddenly Bakura was full on crying. Tears overflowed his burning eyes.

Yami was flummoxed.

This behavior was unlike Bakura, but, then again, what did he truly know about his once enemy? “Bakura?”

Bakura, in his fit of tears, merely shook his head.

“Is this about Ryou? Is he alright? He hasn’t relapsed, has he?” A string of questions from Yami, almost a verbal onslaught to help eradicate the worry that Bakura’s bent over figure made him feel.

This time, Bakura glared right at Yami, a pitiful sight as silent tears ran down his face. “Ryou’s fine,” he spit out angrily.

Yami said, “And you’re not,” an enquiry in the form of explanation.

Bakura barked out a harsh laugh.

“You’re trying to die,” Yami tried again.

By now the tears had slowed, and Bakura could speak clearer in a raggedy voice. “No, Pharaoh, that’s not about wanting to die.”

No, that had been today, the seemingly innocent day that had taken on a new meaning as he had stood on the edge of Domino Bridge, debating, trying, trying so earnestly to just let go.

“Then what the hell, Bakura?” Yami interposed Bakura’s thoughts.

Bakura stared at his arm, imagining the rows of cuts underneath. How did he possibly explain that? Especially to his former enemy. He shrugged.

“That one looks infected,” Yami commented idly as he dragged his feet through the dirt, swinging lightly against the breeze.

Bakura shrugged again. The part of him that wanted to jump off the bridge did not care. “I tried to die,” he said, sort of off handily, very quietly, half hoping Yami wouldn’t hear the honest words.

“Excuse me?” Yami said. He stared straight at Bakura, having heard those words clearly.

Bakura ran his hand up and down the chain of the swings. “Earlier,” he clarified. “I-I tried to jump. In the river, but I couldn’t.”

“Good,” Yami said automatically, firmly.

Bakura shook his head. “Wouldn’t it be better, if?”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“But-”

“No buts. No life is better ended like that.” Ysmi reached forward, lightly touching Bakura’s still lingering hand, enclosing it tightly against the swing chain. He had positioned himself so his swing was facing Bakura. Yami stared into Bakura’s shadowed eyes. “You’re life is worth more.”

“No matter what your thinking in there,” Yami said.


End file.
